


Some Nights

by queenmevesknickers



Category: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: But open to interpretation, Gen, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, it's totally platonic, when it's cold ya gotta do what ya gotta do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27991347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmevesknickers/pseuds/queenmevesknickers
Summary: Though his eyes stung from the icy gale, Gascon could see he was not alone in being unable to sleep tonight. Reynard was marching about, his expression as impenetrable as usual, though his arms were folded tightly across his chest and his shoulders hunched against the cold. He had to admit, the man was growing on him, for all that his sense of humour was desperately lacking. He was just too damn fun to tease – and flirt with, for that matter.“Hey ho, Reynard,” he called cheerily out above the wind. “Enjoying a nice moonlit stroll, eh?” He had to hold back a laugh at the long-suffering expression that immediately appeared on the other man’s face.“Gascon,” he replied stiffly.The Duke of Dogs had no love for royalty, nor loyalty to any cause but his own. But now - he's not so sure.
Relationships: Gascon Brossard & Meve & Reynard Odo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21
Collections: A Stray's Tale





	Some Nights

It was a bloody cold night, even for the mountains of Mahakam. Gascon tossed and turned in vain on his lumpy bedroll, his efforts to warm himself by burrowing into his blankets utterly futile. He had to ask himself for the millionth time how on earth he got here, and what the hell he was doing with his life.

As the wind picked up again, whistling through every tiny crevice in the canvas, he thought jealously of the Strays in their shared tents; perhaps he’d be better off seeing if he could join some of them, rather than shivering his arse off here alone. He’d always had a good rapport with his men, though of late they had begun to tease him dreadfully – none of them failed to see the irony in the once-notorious bandit turned the queen’s man. He had to admit, it almost made him envy the strict discipline of Reynard’s men, who would certainly never ridicule their commander – to his face, at least. Still, seemed a rather joyless existence to have to be so strict and unyielding all the time – no wonder the bloke was such a grouch. Even worse, he was beginning to take pride in serving Meve, and satisfaction in carrying out her commands – and that was giving that damned, inconveniently re-awakened conscience of his plenty to prick him with.

Enough. No point tormenting himself as he lay here alone, freezing to death. Time to see if he could improve his lot tonight. Stamping his feet and pulling his cloak tightly around him, Gascon shuffled out of the tent. The moon was bright, lighting the camp clearly, for all that the wind still blew fiercely through the tents, making ropes shake and canvas snap. The sentries were huddled wretchedly around the pitiful braziers, not looking nearly so vigilant as they usually did. But it would be a very bold enemy – or perhaps a very foolish one – who chose to attack on such a forbidding night.

Though his eyes stung from the icy gale, Gascon could see he was not alone in being unable to sleep tonight. Reynard was marching about, his expression as impenetrable as usual, though his arms were folded tightly across his chest and his shoulders hunched against the cold. He had to admit, the man was growing on him, for all that his sense of humour was desperately lacking. He was just too damn fun to tease – and flirt with, for that matter.

“Hey ho, Reynard,” he called cheerily out above the wind. “Enjoying a nice moonlit stroll, eh?” He had to hold back a laugh at the long-suffering expression that immediately appeared on the other man’s face.

“Gascon,” he replied stiffly.

“Charming weather they have here,” Gascon continued breezily. “Truly, I don’t wonder that th’ dwarves take th’ trouble to bar us all from this paradise.” He saw Reynard’s lips twitch at that. Ha! He _did_ get jokes. “I have to admit though, I was finding my solitary tent a little lonely and inhospitable for my taste – thought I might seek out some company. But if that’s what you’re looking for too, dear friend, I’d be more than happy to oblige you.”

Reynard merely scowled at him, clearly choosing not to dignify his suggestion with a reply. He did, however, glance away, and when Gascon followed his gaze, he realised what the purpose of Reynard’s night-time prowling might be.

“Oh I see…worried about our darling Meve, are we? Planning to go and check on her, eh?”

“No,” was all Reynard said, gruffly, but he glanced at her tent once more.

Interesting. Gascon thought the man was far too uptight and honourable to be _actually_ planning on visiting his queen in the middle of the night, but it did make him wonder. He had assumed Reynard’s blind devotion to Meve stemmed merely from knightly honour and loyalty, but he was beginning to think that just maybe, there was more to it than that.

He couldn’t be quite sure what made him do it: whether it was purely a desire to provoke Reynard further, or whether it was genuine concern for Meve, for it had become apparent ever since their arrival in the mountains that she truly hated the cold. If he was honest – it was probably a bit of both. “We probably should look in on her though, don’t you think? Make sure she’s alright, at least? It _is_ a bloody cold night.”

He could see the warring emotions on Reynard’s face – the conflict between his sense of propriety and his concern for his queen. Gascon made the decision for him and grabbed his arm.

“Come on,” he said, half dragging him towards the royal tent. “We’ll just make sure she’s alright. I’ve no doubt she’ll tell us to bugger off if we’re not welcome.”

But Meve did not appear to be in a state to tell anyone to do anything. When he poked his head in, Gascon was a little alarmed to see her sitting curled up on her bed, blankets pulled tight around her, teeth chattering dreadfully. A memory overwhelmed him, suddenly. A small boy, running through snowy woods, his mind blank at the horrors he had seen. Exhausted, terrified, freezing, his fine leather boots too thin to protect him from the cold.

“Meve!” he exclaimed, dragging Reynard into the tent behind him, as he rushed towards her. “We thought to check on you – are you all right?”

Even as miserable as she seemed, Meve still managed to give him a look that said _Do I look all right to you_. “Too…d-damned...c-c-cold,” she managed, shivering violently.

Reynard looked appalled at her almost blue-lipped state. “Your Grace!” he said, kneeling beside her, looking a little helpless. “What would you have us do to help you?”

Looking around, Gascon suspected the size of her tent had worked against her; while hardly enormous, it was still big enough that it was failing to trap heat properly. “I think there’s only one thing we can do.” Gascon crouched down next to the bed. “Would you like us to warm you up a bit, Meve?”

Reynard made a choking sound. Gascon ignored him. Meve nodded, the movement barely perceptible over her shaking.

He hesitated for a moment. “It’ll work better if we take our clothes off – some of our clothes off, at least,” he hastily amended, seeing Reynard’s expression. In truth, it would work far better if they did dispense with all clothing, but he thought the man would have a stroke if he suggested anything approaching nudity.

Meve merely nodded again, which was all the confirmation Gascon needed. He stood, gritted his teeth and start taking off his outer layers. Meve, with stiff and slow fingers, started to do the same. Reynard merely stared at them in mute horror.

“Oh, come on, Reynard. I would’ve thought a soldier would know some of th’ most basic rules o’ survival.”

“Of course,” he replied stiffly. “But th’ queen –”

Gascon cut him off. “If you value your precious queen’s fingers and toes, dear Reynard,” he said in an undertone, “I’d suggest you stop bothering about protocol and join in.”

That finally spurred him into action. With an expression that suggested he would rather face the combined armies of the Nilfgaardian Empire alone, Reynard followed suit.

It was barely any warmer under the thick layers of blankets even once the three of them had climbed into the bed. Meve was so cold that Gascon rather felt like he was lying beside a snowdrift. A snowdrift that was still trembling fiercely.

“All right, give me your hands, Meve…that’s it.” He winced as he tucked them under his arms; they felt like blocks of ice. He put an arm around her waist and pressed his feet against hers. Gods, she was so cold; his tent had been comparatively toasty compared to how he felt now. He lifted his head. “Reynard, you’re about to fall off th’ damned edge. D’you think you could come over here and help us?”

The other man shuffled over reluctantly, gingerly tucking an arm around his queen, and putting his feet beside theirs. “Are you really going to sleep in that ridiculous hat?” he grumbled.

“I am just trying,” replied Gascon, with great dignity, “to keep my head warm.”

“Boys,” Meve hissed. “D’you think you could give it a rest for once?”

“Sorry, Your Grace.”

“Yes, Meve.” Gascon smiled. That sounded a bit more like the queen he knew.

It seemed to take forever, but slowly, painfully slowly, their combined body heat began to overcome the bitter cold. Gradually, Meve stopped shaking; Gascon felt her relax, even softly sigh, as it finally became genuinely warm beneath the covers. He felt his own eyes begin to grow heavy – he didn’t think he’d been this warm in days. And – though he’d never say as much out loud, knowing Reynard would probably actually behead him if he did – one could do far worse for a bedfellow than the lovely Meve. Even Reynard himself wasn’t so bad, if you could get past the gruffness…

It must have been some hours later when he awoke; not quite sunrise, judging from the light, but not far off it, either. He shut his eyes again, savouring the now delicious warmth under the blankets. The cold air still stung his face – it was not going to be easy to leave the bed, as cramped as it was with the three of them crammed into it. Meve, it seemed, had rolled over to face Reynard instead, though she still had an arm draped over Gascon. He lifted his head a fraction off the pillow and looked over. Reynard was wide awake already, by the looks of it – Gascon had to wonder whether the man had slept at all. He was too absorbed in looking at Meve, however, to realise he was being observed. He was looking at her with an expression of such tenderness that Gascon immediately shut his eyes and put his head back down; he felt as though he’d intruded on something incredibly private – and gods, he could guess how much Reynard would hate anyone seeing that.

He lay there a while longer, a little lost in the unfamiliar sensation of the warmth of the two bodies beside him, the weight of Meve’s arm lying across his stomach. It had been a while, a long while, since he had been simply close to someone like this. He’d had lovers, sure, but when was the last time he’d simply slept beside someone? He didn’t know. Meve shifted a little in her sleep, and her grip on him tightened. He swallowed hard – he was almost alarmed at how comforting it was. Had he really known such little affection in the last few years? Thinking of what he knew of Meve and Reynard, each of them lonely in their own way, Gascon suspected he wasn’t the only one in the bed who was a little starved of human touch – gods help them all.

Well, no good thing could last forever. With more than a little reluctance, he stretched and yawned loudly, to signal he was awake. This quickly roused Meve, who promptly rolled over and, blinking sleepily, looked back and forth between Reynard and Gascon in total bewilderment. The latter couldn’t help but grin as she turned pink and yanked the blankets up to her chin. He felt a twinge of pity for Reynard, who looked like he wished for nothing more than to be swallowed up by a hole in the ground.

Meve cleared her throat. “Uh. Thank you. Both.” Her eyes continued to dart between the two of them. “Grateful I am for your…aid…last night.”

He did his best not to laugh at her confusion. “Oh, ’twas nothing, Meve. You needn’t mention it.”

“I’m always pleased to serve Your Grace in any way I can,” Reynard said quietly. He’d got out of the bed and turned away, dressing swiftly in the brisk air.

Gascon took that as his cue and dragged himself out from under the covers too, dressing as quickly as he could as the still-frosty air nipped at him. He turned back to Meve one last time before he slipped out of her tent and saw that she’d rolled over and gone back to sleep; the sight of the tousled blonde head peeking out from under the covers brought a smile to his lips.

As he followed Reynard out of the tent, the old impulse to tease got the better of him. “Was that th’ best night of your life, Reynard, or th’ worst?”

The other man spun back around to face him. “What?”

He took in Reynard’s tired eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the deep line etched between his brows. Perhaps he could give him a break…just this once. “Eh…nothing.”

“Listen, Gascon,” Reynard began, somewhat awkwardly. “I know I’ve made no secret of my…reservations…about you.”

Gascon snorted – that was an understatement if ever he’d heard one.

“But,” he continued, his frown softening. “I’m glad – for Her Majesty’s sake – that you acted as you did last night. Perhaps – perhaps I’ve misjudged you.”

“Well, no hard feelings then, Reynard. I’d be th’ last to hold a grudge.” The words came easily enough, as did the smirk that accompanied them. But his stomach squirmed uncomfortably.

“Right,” said Reynard gruffly. “Well – I’ll see you shortly.” And he marched off back towards his own tent.

By the time Gascon made it back into his tent, the sense of contentment he’d woken with had steadily drained away until he was left with nothing but a sense of prickly discomfort. His eyes lit on his satchel and his heart sank, remembering the message concealed carefully within. He’d destroyed all the rest, keeping only the one which would back his claim to the agreed price, should the Blackclads seek to renege on their accord. He slid it out now and read it through again. He tried to recall the sense of triumph he’d felt when he’d first seen the size of the reward they’d offered him – a sum that would set him up in the kind of comfort he hadn’t known in a very long time. But when he thought of the peaceful expression on Meve’s face as she’s slept beside him, her arm tucked trustingly around his waist, it turned to ashes in his mouth.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, clutching his bag, lost in thought. It had been foolish of him to leave it here – had his tent been searched, he could easily have been found out. Come to think of it, though, he didn’t think his possessions ever had been tampered with; he’d have known for sure. He shook his head – Meve was still too trusting by far. He’d have to get her to be a _tad_ more suspicious of all these new recruits they were picking up – maybe he’d suggest getting his lads to conduct a few discreet searches…

It dawned on him suddenly that without realising it, he’d made his decision. Meve needed him – and gods help him, Reynard did too; that man was going to worry himself into an early grave if someone didn’t get him to loosen up. And well – he needed them too. He’d seen Meve plunge into the fray without fear or hesitation, fighting shoulder to shoulder with her men; he’d seen her defend outcasts, protect peasants, treat her prisoners with dignity. Gascon had no love for royalty, but Meve had shown that she was cut from a different cloth. And Reynard too – he knew his men by name, as Gascon did, and valued their lives as dearly as his own; and the way he could size up a battle instantly, the speed with which he could tally an enemy’s strengths and weaknesses was impressive, he had to admit. They’d shown him what it was to believe in something; to have a cause worth fighting for – worth dying for, even. He’d thought he was impervious to their noble, self-sacrificing ways – but now it seemed he’d been mistaken.

He smiled to himself as he crumpled up the Nilfgaardian missive – he’d destroy it properly as soon as he could. How to get himself out of the deal posed a bigger challenge, but there had to be some way of turning it to his advantage. He shrugged; he’d find a way – after all, his luck had always carried him through so far. And he’d need it more than ever now that he’d chosen the side with impossible odds.

Oh well, he thought, stepping out into the cold once more – though it was not quite so unforgiving as it had been the day before – ready to join Meve and Reynard in the command tent. He had a good feeling about this.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was born as a) a bit of a character study for Gascon and b) a chance to indulge in a classic fanfiction trope ;) 
> 
> (...and having once shared a bed with someone I had a huge crush on, I can confirm that poor Reynard absolutely did not sleep at all...)


End file.
